A Lonely Death (17 page)

Taking a deep breath, Kenton met Rutledge’s gaze. “Several weeks ago, he received a letter from someone in Germany. His aunt had hanged herself. Despondent still over the death of her son, according to her priest, and enclosed was a copy of the letter from her doctor, documenting her ill health. An effort, I should think, to convince the church that she was not an intentional suicide, but it made sad reading. Carl showed it to me, asking what to do. I suggested making a small gift to the church, in her name. And that was the end of it for all I knew. Now . . . now I’m betraying a trust.”

He stopped, his face drawn, his eyes reflecting his discomfort and anxiety.

Rutledge said, “I’ll speak to him. Quietly, without making it obvious. Thank you.”

“I’m not saying—I’m not pointing a finger, you understand. But my God, four men are dead, and if I don’t speak up, there may be others. I love Carl like a son, I’ll do anything to help him. But I was fond of Theo as well. I can’t believe Carl could have harmed him. Not Theo.”

“It took a great deal of courage to come here. But you did the right thing.”

Kenton rose from the table. “Have I? He could have been my son, you know. But my mother persuaded me not to marry Hilda. And she was right, in the long term we were much happier with our respective spouses. All the same, I still remember how I felt at the time.”

As he walked away, Rutledge wondered if that last was true. Or if over the years Kenton had convinced himself that it must be true, that his mother had been wise.

He went directly to the police station and found Constable Walker reading a message from Inspector Norman.

He looked up as Rutledge came in.

“There’s a woman in Hastings who saw Theo Hartle at seven o’clock, speaking to a man. The Inspector wants to know if you’ll be interested in interviewing her with him. I told Constable Petty that we’d come as soon as I tracked you down.”

“Let’s go,” Rutledge said, and turned toward the inn to collect his motorcar. He told himself that Carl Hopkins could wait.

But he was wrong.

12

I
nspector Norman was waiting for them, impatient and short tempered. He greeted Rutledge with a sharp, “I was about to go on without you. I’ve got a murder inquiry of my own, two women killed in a house on Brent Street. They walked in on a man ransacking it. There’s an intensive search in progress. I don’t appreciate the distraction of your inquiry.”

“We’ll talk to this person ourselves, Constable Walker and I.”

“This is my patch. I told you.” He reached for his hat and led the way back to the street. “We’ll use your motorcar, if you please.”

And so Rutledge had no choice but to accommodate Inspector Norman, Constable Petty, and Walker, with no space left for Hamish where he usually rode. However, the distance wasn’t too great, and in a matter of minutes they were walking into a shop that catered to newborns and small children. There were caps and blankets, gowns and christening robes, finely woven blankets and the dresses that children of both sexes still wore when very young, rich with embroidery and ruching and tucks. There was also a small selection of prams, rocking horses, and the Teddy bears that the American president had made so popular, as well as a tray of silver rattles, spoons, cups, and teething rings.

The woman waiting on a customer was large and motherly, with a low-pitched voice and a warm manner. She glanced up as she saw the four men enter the shop, but her discussion of cap ribbons never faltered. And so the four policemen were forced to stand idly waiting until the customer was satisfied and had left with a small parcel done up in silver paper.

“Mrs. Griffith?” Inspector Norman asked, coming forward.

“Yes. How may I help you? I doubt you’ve come for christening robes or china kittens.”

Inspector Norman gave their names, and then said, “You spoke to one of my men. About Theo Hartle.”

“Oh, yes. I heard that the police were trying to find out where he was before he was killed. I saw him where the main road divides just at the foot of Marine Street. He was speaking to a man. A friendly conversation, as far as I could tell, but rather serious as well. I was walking with a friend, and we weren’t going in that direction, and so I didn’t have an opportunity to ask after his sister.”

“You know the family?” Rutledge asked, surprised.

“His mother and I went to school together. And then we were married and went our separate ways. But we stayed in touch. Peggy Winslow is my goddaughter, and I have tried to keep an eye on her for her mother’s sake. But that worthless complainer she’s tied to keeps her on a short rein. A pity, but there you are. She always enjoyed the little treats I planned for her visits. But she doesn’t come to Hastings these days.”

Rutledge remembered how Mrs. Winslow had seemed to enjoy the pastries at the tea shop in Eastfield.

“Did you know the man Hartle was speaking with?”

“I don’t think I do, although I may have seen him about from time to time.”

“And Hartle didn’t appear to be afraid of him, or uncomfortable in his presence?”

“No, not as far as I could tell.”

“What time of day was this?” Inspector Norman asked.

“Closer to seven than six, at a guess,” she said. “I wasn’t exactly keeping track of the time.”

“And they were still there talking when you last saw them?”

“Still there, on the corner. I couldn’t have said where either of them went after that. I find it so hard to believe that Theo is gone. He survived the war. The Germans couldn’t kill him, and then some murdering maniac takes his life. I shall go to the funeral, no matter what that husband of Peggy’s has to say. And I’ll bring her here as well,” she ended vigorously, and Rutledge had no doubt that she would do just that.

“Can you describe the other man?” he asked.

She pursed her lips, thinking. “Not as tall as you. Brown hair, slim. I had no particular reason to take note of him.”

All the same, it sounded like the man Rutledge had encountered at The White Swans Hotel. No certainty, of course, but still, very likely.

Hamish said, “Ye ken, it doesna’ mean he didna’ follow his victim and kill him when it was finally dark.”

And that was true as well.

“You were never near enough to hear any of their conversation?” Rutledge asked. “You couldn’t judge the other man’s accent, for instance?”

“No, not close enough by a long chalk,” Mrs. Griffith replied. “Are you thinking he might have been a foreigner, then?”

“Actually I wondered what class of man he might have been.”

“I can tell you, he was dressed more like a gentleman.”

Inspector Norman had turned to stare at Rutledge. “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

He was a sharp man, and Rutledge had forgotten that.

“No one—that is to say, no one alive—has heard the killer speak. He could be a Scot as far as we know. Or from the Midlands. It would be helpful if we could place him.”

Norman grunted, then turned to Constable Petty. “If you’ll take Mrs. Griffith’s statement?” And to the woman, he added, “When the shop is closed, we’d like you to come in and read it over before signing it.”

“I don’t know that I’ve been any help,” she said doubtfully. “But yes, I shall come in and sign the paper.”

They left her, then, and on the street once more, Inspector Norman stopped by the motorcar, instead of getting in. “You think it was Daniel Pierce, don’t you?”

“I’ve been given no reason to suspect Pierce,” he said, keeping to the literal truth. There was only circumstance and conjecture so far, hardly evidence. “But I’m told you wouldn’t mind seeing him taken up for this crime or any other.”

“And you have a reason for thinking as much,” Norman went on relentlessly, ignoring the denial. “Don’t hold out on me, Rutledge!”

“I’m not holding out,” he retorted. “So far there’s no clear motive for these murders. And as long as there isn’t, I have no more reason to suspect Pierce than I do any other person.”

“I’m told you went away for several days. What was that in aid of?”

Rutledge wondered who had told him that? Walker? Or someone else? “I went to see two of the men whose names were on the identity discs we’ve found. One man swears he never had them—and that’s likely. He was a career soldier and sewed his name into his uniform. The other man I spoke with found his discs in the trunk where he kept his uniform and souvenirs. I saw them for myself. I didn’t pursue the question any further. There wasn’t time. But if two of the discs are false, then the others are likely to be.”

“If these are false, then where did the killer get real names to put on them?”

“From transport manifests, burial details, payroll accounts, censoring letters—or merely sitting in a pub and keeping his ears open.”

“And so where does that leave us?” Inspector Norman demanded.

“I’m not sure. The discs we’ve found in the mouths of victims appear to be real, but that means someone has learned how to counterfeit them well enough to pass for authentic discs. It would be easy enough, I should think. But why should anyone go to that much trouble? And if he did, why not simply make up the names on them? Or use the victim’s name? If I’m any judge, the two men I spoke with hadn’t heard of or met anyone from the Eastfield Company. Nor did they know Anthony Pierce. Instead the killer used real people. The point, then, seems to have been the confusion these discs have created.”

“There’s only one reason I can think of to use the wrong names,” Inspector Norman said, opening the door to the motorcar. “If he’d used the names of the real soldiers involved, then we’d be able to trace
them
and learn precisely whatever it is that’s behind these murders.” He got in and waited until Constable Walker had turned the crank and stepped into the rear seat. “What if the Eastfield men fired on another company by mistake, and killed a number of them?”

Constable Walker spoke up for the first time. “That’s not likely. My nephew is one of the Eastfield Company. And he’d never cover up something of that sort. And I knew each man in that company. If they’d done wrong, he’d be the first to try to take responsibility and make amends.”

“That may well be. But there were other things going on at the Front. Like shooting an unpopular officer in the back during an attack.”

“You weren’t there,” Constable Walker persisted.

“Neither were you,” Inspector Norman retorted. They had reached the police station, and he got out as the motorcar pulled in by the main door. “Well. I don’t know if Mrs. Griffith clarified or clouded the issue. But for what it’s worth, I’ll see you get a copy of her statement, when it’s drawn up and signed.”

And then he was gone, striding into the police station with the intensity of a man who knew he had long hours ahead of him, his mind already busy with the two women killed by the intruder.

As they drove away, Constable Walker said, “He’s wrong,” as if that settled the matter.

Rutledge let it go. Inspector Norman’s remarks had distracted everyone from the subject of Daniel Pierce. And Rutledge was not ready for a witch hunt that muddled the case prematurely.

He said to Walker, “I have a stop to make before we leave Hastings. You can wait in the car, if you will.”

“Yes, sir,” Walker replied, his mind still on Inspector Norman’s charges.

Rutledge found the military shop again and leaving his motorcar just out of sight, walked in to collect more information about the man who had brought in the flint knife.

The proprietor was going through the pockets of an officer’s greatcoat as Rutledge came through the door.

“Hallo. Looking for more flint knives?”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “Do you have any others?”

Smiling, the proprietor hung up the greatcoat and shook his head. “No, more’s the pity. That’s to say if you were looking to buy another one.”

“I’m after information this time. I’m curious about the man who brought them in. I’d like to know whatever you learned from him. Perhaps he kept one or two more such knives, better made than this one.”

The man shrugged. “I doubt he has any more. He’d probably have sold them with the original one. Would you like me to contact him for you?”

“Thanks, but I’d rather write to him myself.” He could feel the man’s reluctance, and added, “I don’t mind paying a finder’s fee, if he’s got other examples.” This was not his inquiry, and Rutledge had no authority to invoke the power of Scotland Yard to ask for the shopkeeper’s cooperation.

The proprietor smiled. “You’re a man after my own heart, Mr. . . .”

He let his voice trail away, hinting.

“My name is Rutledge. I’m from London. I’m here in Hastings on a matter of business.”

“Then, Mr. Rutledge, if you’ll give me five minutes, I’ll look in my books and see what I have that will help you track down the former owner of a fine flint knife. Meanwhile, is there anything else you’d care to see?”

“Not at the moment.”

It took fewer than five minutes for the man to find the proper entry, and he wrote the name on a sheet of paper in a bold, clear hand. Even upside down, Rutledge could read the name: Charles Henry. It was what he’d remembered from the first visit.

Below were the rest of the details. 21 June 1908. Grandfather East Anglia, dug up in garden. Not definite when found.

1908. Three years after the murder of the man found at Stonehenge, Rutledge thought. But—on the summer solstice. Coincidence?

Rutledge thanked him, and after an exchange about the greatcoat that the proprietor had been preparing for sale, he left.

Walker said as he came through the shop door, “Were you buying identity discs?”

Rutledge realized that the constable was quite serious, and answered him in the same vein. “I’d asked if there were any for sale. I was told that he didn’t carry any because there was no call for them.”

“Too bad. It would have made our work easier.” Walker sighed. “We’ve not made much progress, on the whole. It’s mostly finding out what isn’t there, like looking for trouble and finding none. And then trouble turns up on the doorstep.”

It was true. But so far, there hadn’t been any other deaths. And that in itself was progress of a sort.

When they drove into Eastfield half an hour later, Walker said, “Who, pray, is that?”

A man was standing in front of the police station, a grim expression on his face.

Rutledge took one look, and swore.

“You know him?” the constable asked, surprised.

“Yes. And I have a feeling I know why he’s here.”

Instead of leaving his motorcar in the hotel yard, he drove the short distance to the police station and drew up there.

Rutledge got out but stood by the motorcar’s door.

“Inspector Mickelson,” he said in greeting.

Mickelson made no effort to return the greeting. “I’ve come to relieve you,” he said coldly. “Officially. There have been complaints about your conduct. Chief Superintendent Bowles assured the Chief Constable that these would be taken seriously, and you’d be withdrawn before the day is out. That was this morning. And as you can see, I am here.” He turned to Constable Walker. “And you are?”

Walker gave his name, and looked from one man to the other. “I don’t quite understand why Inspector Rutledge has been replaced. Misconduct, sir? Of what sort?”